


All Dressed up (& No Where to Run)

by AnotherAnon0



Series: Poor Little Rich Bitch: Extended [2]
Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Boot Worship, Crossdressing Kink, High Heels, Inferiority Kink, M/M, Master/Slave, Nipple Piercings, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, S&M, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:06:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28368111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnotherAnon0/pseuds/AnotherAnon0
Summary: Alfred has the privilege of cleaning Sergei's boots.[After lovely feedback on Poor Little Rich Bitch, I have decided to make my stupid kinky smutty Alfred/Sergei fics into a series! The fics don't need to be read in any particular order, but Poor Little Rich Bitch does kind of set the stage for the ship. Enjoy!]
Relationships: Alfred Ashford/Sergei Vladimir
Series: Poor Little Rich Bitch: Extended [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2077350
Kudos: 12





	All Dressed up (& No Where to Run)

Alfred liked the outfit Sergei had picked out for him tonight. 

A beautiful skirt of pastel pink and violet, with lacy trims and glittering rhinestones decorating the centres of the tiny bows pocked across the fabric. 

He felt pretty. He knew he looked pretty, too. He'd worked extra hard on his makeup tonight. Sergei had given him as much time to get ready as he wanted, insisting he look absolutely flawless, so Alfred took it, spending almost an hour ensuring the edges of his glossy lipstick and eyeliner were doll-like in their precision. 

Sheer white stockings dressed his thin legs to the thigh, barely meeting the hem of the short skirt. And while he wasn't given a shirt, Sergei wanting easy access to his pierced nipples, he had been told to adorn a pair of very high, very thin heels. Sergei called them his _whore_ heels -- the transparent, glassy platforms certainly reminiscent of something a stripper or street walker would wear to grab a client's attention. 

But as Alfred crossed the threshold of the bedroom, finally finished fussing over his painted face, he wasn't given any such attention. 

He knew he wasn't supposed to expect any.

Sergei sat in his usual spot, a throne-like armchair by the wall-to-wall bookshelf in the far corner of the room. He had a grand tome perched on his crossed thigh, and a glass of liquor in a hand, dangling off of the side of the chair casually. He didn't acknowledge Alfred at all.

Carefully, shaky in his tall heels, Alfred began to close the distance between them, only to be stopped when he just barely reached the halfway point.

"Crawl." Sergei spoke as he continued to read his book.

Immediately, Alfred slipped to his socked knees. He would have confirmed the order, but Sergei had told him he wasn't allowed to speak tonight. Not a word. Not a peep. Not a moan nor gasp. He was to be a perfectly silent little doll, obediently responding to orders and nothing more.

Slowly, he crawled with his head bowed, stopping once the toes of Sergei's right boot were between his palms.

The Colonel was wearing his training uniform, having been at the U.B.C.S barracks on the island the whole day, working out a new regimen for the ragtag troops. He hadn't changed before he arrived, and Alfred could smell the masculine sweat and musk on the thick, canvas fabric of his dark green fatigues. His combat boots were dusty and dirty, scratched and scraped from the rough terrain of the island. The leather was cracked and handsomely well-worn.

Alfred didn't look up, but he could hear the book be closed and tossed to the coffee table beside the chair casually. The throaty _glug_ of a deep sip of liquor followed. Alfred noticed every nonchalant little sound was causing him to shiver, sprinkling sparks in his hips perversely. Sergei's other boot coming into his line of vision, the older man uncrossing his legs with a grunt.

"You will clean until they look brand new." He said firmly, "If there's a single _molecule_ of dust left, I'll leave you with the troops again. Understood?"

He quickly began to realise why Sergei had demanded him silent that night. It was almost painful to not be able to affirm commands, to not let the breathy, lusty words "Yes, Sir!" escape from him. Those words were soothing, like a soft blanket. They often felt orgasmic, rolling from his tongue excitedly. They confirmed his place, and gave him a chance to express his loving obedience to the superior man who he served with joy. Not being able to speak even those words made him feel pent up, frustrated.

Regardless of his silent woes, Alfred dipped his head down quickly, tongue wiping across the steel toe of one, then the other. Sergei didn't need to threaten him in order to get him to comply, he'd saw his own arm off if Sergei ordered him to, but he enjoyed it nonetheless.

He knew from experience they weren't empty threats -- which made it so much better. Weeks ago, Sergei had led him by the hair to the barracks after a perceived slight during a boardroom meeting, throwing him to the preverbal wolves with not a drop of lubricant to ease the endless penetrations. He hadn't been able to walk the next day -- or, whatever day it was he was finally let go.

The memory made him shiver as he continued to clean, happily slurping up the dirt and dust from the leather, swallowing it gratefully. 

Sergei always told him he was worth less then the dirt on his boots, that he should be honoured to eat the mud from his tread. Albert agreed wholeheartedly.

He was getting perversely aroused, on his hands and knees, licking Sergei's boots. His cock had been hard from the moment Sergei had handed him his outfit for the night, but now he felt the familiar haze of need burning through his brain, causing his hole to clench greedily.

His pale, blue eyes flicked up to look at his Master, who was smirking down at him smugly. He immediately looked away, knowing full well he wasn't supposed to make eye contact. Sergei acknowledged his reverence with a nod.

"Good bitch, _malyshka_ , you might just be allowed to drain my balls tonight with your pretty little throat."

Alfred couldn't contain the shiver that wracked through him. He could feel his cock beginning to leak, dripping tendrils of filth onto his cute skirt.

"You know your place, _da_?" Sergei continued, entertained by the reaction he always was able to provoke with his words alone, "On the floor like a dog, serving."

Alfred had to suppress the whimper that wanted to desperately to squeak up his throat. 

Sergei licked his lips with a scoff-like laugh, deciding he'd push harder and force Alfred to break the rules he'd been given.

"You should just get it over with and get rid of this mansion. You'd be happier selling your cunt for pennies on the street."

 _No, no, no, please no_... Alfred thought desperately.

"You're not a _Lord_ \-- you're a cum-addicted pig who needs his fix!"

Alfred felt his hips buck, an involuntary moan gushing past his best defences. He internally cursed at himself, knowing he'd fucked up.

"Awww... _Malyshka_. You were doing so well." Sergei faux-pouted, sighing loudly as though weighing his options in light of the disobedience, "Well, I cannot allow this show of disobedience to go unpunished. You know that..."

Alfred looked up, licking his lips. There were flecks of dirt stuck to his red lipstick, the corners of which had been rubbed out onto his cheek.

"I think Charlie platoon is still out on the field, training." He mused, a devious smirk crawling across his scarred cheeks, "Perhaps the boys have some use for a defective boot-cleaner."


End file.
